


JAWBREAKER

by emotional_ejaculation



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case, Death, F/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10212080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotional_ejaculation/pseuds/emotional_ejaculation
Summary: It happens.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I try writing in any form, and when I'm too lazy to create OC's I take them from television shows and work with what i can.

It started slowly. The rain. A splatter here, a splash there. First on the windshield in front of him, and then against the windows beside him. The drops begin to sound like thousands of fingertips tapping the top of his car in unison. The rain begins to trickle down the window shield, thick enough to mix together a resemble tears. 

He was exhausted, and his way of coping was taking his tired frustration out on the steering wheel. If it had skin, it would’ve been bruised and beet-red. Dean’s soft snores filled the impala. Sam could barely keep his eyes open. There was no pillow in sight, but something was smothering him. There were still a few miles left. 

He gripped onto the seatbelt constricting his body and pulled it away from his chest. He couldn’t breathe-anxious and starving. The distant murmur of the radio. The thrum of the Impala usually went unnoticed, but that night it was all he could hear. His lips were glistening from how many times he’d bitten them and licked over the cuts his teeth dug. 

Her hell begins in the dark with a flash of quick light, followed by a soft click of a closing door. The thick carpet swallows the sounds of his footsteps. The moonbeams filled her bedroom, splashing against the walls and ceiling, turning her world silver. Her knuckles were commonly white that summer. He’s whispering to her in the dark of his room-things that make her feel dirty and used, things that make her wince as he bites marks into her neck. Like explicit is his native language. 

The noise of the street would drift under the sills of her windows and she spent their time in the bedroom focusing in those sounds. She imagined the clouds outside moving in slow motion, like large nuclear explosions. His prison cell curtains blocked out the light, but not the sound, and definitely not her imagination. 

Sam’s eyes were drunk in the morning light, and he stretched out his muscles and pushed his unruly hair out of his face. The sun broke over the windowsill and covered his face in a mustard yellow-orange and made his irises dance. His nostrils were greeted by the scent of lemon, fresh linen and detergent. The room was bright. Large glass pieces covered the walls instead of coats of neutral paint. 

The ceiling fan was turning and casting shadows over the tile floors, cutting the sunlight rays and one would wonder if you could go deaf just by air chopping. Sam could feel war drums echoing around in his stomach, and reluctantly decided it was time to move. There was a half eaten apple yellowing over on the night table. The outfit he wore last night was sweat. The bathroom light flickered on; the forest green of his eyes swallowed his pupils before honing in on his reflection. The palms of his hands landed with a harsh thud on the counter. Grip tightening around the porcelain of the sink, he stared back at himself. Didn’t recognize the green eyes tinged crimson, though they searched his face with desperation. His hair lay flat along one side of his head, revealing the structure of his jawline. It clenched at the thought. There was some toothpaste in the corner of his lips by the time he finished cleaning up. He wiped it away with his hand and stepped out of the bathroom.

As he woke his sleeping limbs, the door opened, and standing in the doorway was a man with bags of take-out in his hands. 

Hey says, around a mouthful of powder and diabetes, “Rise and shine, Rapunzel-I got doughnuts and a case.” 

 

///.

The autumn leaves cracked underneath his cheap shoes. The tops of the trees were on fire, and Sam and Dean crossed the massive willow tree in front of the standard-old home.

It was abnormally early in the morning for an interrogation-not for them, though. Dean’s teeth were chattering; a chorus of enamel grinding against enamel. Sam bit into his apple-his breakfast-hard enough to crush a diamond. The rising sun snuck through the gaps in the leaves and covered their faces in yellow glows. Sam was a few feet too lanky-he figured that was why people seemed intimidated. Was it his width? His permanent facial expression? 

The case was a few towns over from the motel-Forks, Washington. Which meant they had to get another room somewhere. A second victim was found hanging from her chandelier. The first, a few days before, was to be buried the next day. He was hanging from his staircase. The cause of death was blood loss, from a slit throat. The hanging was post-mortem. He died slowly. Sam was the first to ask the relation between the two, and why it was a case for them, when Dean replied that they had “checked out less” and there had been no signs of entry or struggle, and it was impossible for the woman to hang herself from the chandelier in the first place. 

The cup of black coffee sat asleep near the tip of the table. A crying woman sat awake near the tip of a couch chair. Sam awkwardly handed her the tissue box, and feigned his sympathy. He didn’t feel as emotionally invested as he normally did, that particular day. He felt bad for not feeling bad, but it was just one of those days-he didn’t feel much. She was busy constructing the night out of syllables, and Sam just nodded and asked his basketful of questions. Her knees are shaking-voice quivering more than her bottom lip. Her sister had just died-they seemed close. Or it was just the trauma of how she had found him. People seem to care more after someone dies-Sam well knew that. Dean was rubbing his eyes, and Sam understood why he was so tired. Hell, at least Dean had slept the night before. Sam had been in and out of consciousness for the whole six hours. 

“Houses are supposed to be safe, you know? I just don’t-I don’t understand how this could have happened. Sarah was a lovely woman! Just…beautiful and thoughtful. I was the older sister but I looked up to her! I don’t-understand.” More waterworks. 

“Mrs. Manson, I can’t imagine how hard this is for you-“ lies, lies, lies. “Was there anyone who might’ve wanted to hurt Sarah?” She looks up at him with furrowed brows and bloodshot eyes. 

“God, no. She was an angel-everyone in town loved her.” 

 

///.

“Jealous, much?”

“Dean, her sister just died. Of course she’s going to speak highly of her.” 

“Yeah but she had that look.”

“What look?” 

“…I don’t know man. So what, vengeful spirit? She mentioned cold spots and flickering lights. For me that’s a clear indication-”

“Yeah so I’ll talk with the victim’s daughter-you go meet with the first victim’s daughter.”

Mavis sniffled against her sleeve and rubbed her face until it felt raw. She breathed in the stifling smell of autumn, the streets red and yellow with dying leaves. Her nose, the color of the reddest rose you would ever see.

  The autumn wind tugged at her clothes as she biked down the street, the trees making an arch over her head and their long, anorexic branches seemingly reached for her. The only sounds were her squeaky breaks and the wheel ticks, and Ms. Adams wood chimes echoing down the empty street. The sun was setting, and despite the thick slate clouds that morning, the sky was painted in cotton candy pink and a promising orange. She pulled up just in time to watch a man in a suit exit a black car. She didn’t really like the color black-black intimidated her. Because it reminded her of the universe, in all of it’s emptiness. And holes were black. So were cockroaches and wet make-up lines under eyes. Lots of unhappy things were black. Black itself was sad. Because it was nothing. Black was when you had nothing, no other colors. That was the impression of the man she initially got-a black hole. The white of his dress shirt contrasted nicely with his black car and black coat. 

“Mavis Onassis? Agent Scully-I just have a few questions.” He briefly flashed his badge and Mavis looked up at him suspiciously. 

“FBI?” 

“Yes. I just need to speak with you about your friend Lucille’s mother.” Mavis’ expression immediately fell and she stopped breathing. It just hurt. Dean observed his surroundings, and her home. It was pretty decent-a little one story suburban home with a pretty decent Ford Explorer sitting out front. 

“It’s awful-what happened to Ms. Manson. She was always nice to me.” 

“What about Lucille?”

“What about her?”

“Was she nice to her too?” Dean immediately suspected something was off about Mavis. What skin that was exposed was gray-she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Her eyes sagged with the blues and purples of a tired that couldn’t be slept away. He knew that kind of tired. Guilt. Her eyes-her glass face. The small girl resonates a sound that might be a laugh but it was dry and reminded Dean of a knot in your back. The words are dead on her tongue, so the strangled sound is all she can manage to choke out. 

“Yeah.” Growing up, they avoided talking about home. Together they could go something else for a while. They didn’t talk about Mavis’ fresh bruises at Sunday mass, or her beer-scented hair. Together, a stick could be a sword, a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, maybe a castle. They collected the world in small handfuls-outside it was suburban and cool, but inside, behind the picket fences, there was something churning and pitch black.

“You sure?” Her heart constricts. 

“So the girl is hiding something. How about…?” 

“Her name is Mavis. And yes, Lucille is hiding something too.” 

“So what? Mommy and Daddy weren’t all mini sandwiches and Sunday mass?” 

“Guess not.” 

 

…

The hour of her father’s funeral had arrived and Mavis found herself dressed in a dark dress and flats, preparing to leave in a black car that had come from somewhere surrounded by people she would never care about. 

Before Mavis entered the vehicle, she took her anger and balled it up so tight that not even a trace could be seen from someone looking on. The inside of her mind was a supernova, planets and galaxies imploding on themselves, their impacts booming in her ears louder than any sound she had ever heard. The wind was loud that day, making it’s way through the trees surrounding, and she could almost hear her heart being taken from her chest and put 6 feet under, with her father. 

Homes turned to trees and concrete to gravel as they drove. The landscape turned into a smear of green and gray colors as it flew by her. The so strange turns would now be carved into her memory, the silvery scars so deep she would never be able to forget them, for she would remember this day for as long as she would live.


End file.
